


The Proverbial Unrest

by messjon



Category: Pierce the Veil
Genre: 2004, Angst, Emo, LDS, M/M, Mormon, Mormonism, Religion, religious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9783275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messjon/pseuds/messjon
Summary: The year is 2004 and Tony has a crush on the Mormon kid.© 2017 messjon





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I will not be putting very much effort into this, nor taking it very seriously. This is the designated area for where I go when I don't want to stress too much about what I'm writing, so if the quality is lacking, I don't care. This will not have an update schedule. Chapters will likely be relatively short. Don't bug me about it.

There are things I like about suburbia and there are things I don't. When you grow up here, you don't really know anything else, so maybe that's why I don't detest the street after street of cookie-cutter houses and posses of preteens heading home with scrapes and bruises from trying to ride their bikes sans handlebars. Then again, maybe that's also why I lie awake some nights, yearning to escape to somewhere where the families are made from something other than three generic molds and there are things to do besides sneak to the playground after sunset to smoke cigarettes.

It's not all bad. It's not all good. When you're driving down the hill in the summer, assuming it's late enough in the day, you can look out and see the big, empty, stained glass sky and you feel okay because you're reminded that the universe is infinitely bigger than this one little neighborhood and this one monotonous routine. You could get away if you wanted to. You really could. It can get tough to bear, though, that everyone is packed into a little can of sardines. A bunch of sardines who smile and pretend they don't know that the man across the street beats his wife or that the house on the corner is almost definitely a meth lab.

I imagine it'd be different in the city. I've never actually been, let alone lived it, but from what I know, you're supposed to be fucked up there. I assume it's a lot less judgy. Oh, you get off on being whipped? Cool, I shoplift eighty percent of my groceries. The separation of four feet of grass between houses here is an illusion. It makes people feel safe acting like they aren't horrible people. If you live in an apartment building wedged between a tall bank and a taller office complex, it's too cramped for anyone to even try to hide their vices. Besides, even if someone gives a damn about your cocaine problem, they're too busy to do something about it anyway.

I'm known on my street as a sort of a hooligan. I skateboard to school, I have snakebites on my face, and I wear pants baggy enough to hide a body in them. Mothers cross the street when they see me. Dealing with judgmental clones every day isn't fun, but at least no one asks me to watch their cat while they're on vacation or mow their lawn at fifty cents a pop like they do with Jonny next door. Besides, I'm not alone. My best friend lives at the other street corner, the one that isn't infested with tweakers. He has a job now, so we don't see each other as much, but we still borrow each others' CDs and hang out at the skate park when we can. Plus, the Fuentes brothers live a couple of streets down, and they're in my boat too. Vic and I play guitar together sometimes. Never with amps, since last time we tried that, Mr. O'Conner threatened to call the cops. Vic tried saying, "This isn't the fifties anymore, Larry." Mr. O'Conner was not amused. Especially because he was barely in grade school in the fifties, and I guess somehow Vic was implying that he's an old geezer. Which he is. We unplugged the amps anyway.

I'm sitting on top of the jungle gym, sucking on my last cigarette when my Walkman CD player batteries die. It's too hot tonight to be inside. Our air conditioner broke last week and we haven't gotten it fixed yet since it's late August by now and the weather will cool off soon. To make matters worse, we only have two fans in the house and they were auctioned off to my parents and sister. In all fairness, she's eight. It's more important that she sleeps through the night than me, and there are two people in my parents' bed, so they may as well kill two birds with one stone.

With the added noise of the rotating blades, it's less risky to slide my window open and drop down to the grass, so I'm not all that bothered. I don't smoke a lot. Just when I'm bored, or when I'm hanging out with Jaxin or Mike or Vic. There's just something so relaxing about sitting at the top of the playground with headphones and a Midtown CD that makes cigarettes irresistible.

I'm nervous, because tomorrow is the first day of school. It's not that I actually have anything to be afraid of. Everyone just worries that they'll be late or say something embarrassing and that's what they'll be known for all year. It hasn't even happened to me, but that doesn't stop me from harboring a moderate seed of dread in the pit of my stomach. In seventh grade, Jaxin came to school with his shirt inside out. Everyone called him 'tag boy' until spring break. It wasn't the most hurtful of insults, but still-kids are obnoxious and they can't let things go. I plan to be three minutes early to every class to make sure I don't get any more attention than what's necessary.

I remove the batteries from my Walkman and chuck them into a bush, pulling out my earbuds and winding them around the CD player. A bat flits around overhead while I lay the device on my stomach. I can faintly hear what seems to be either frogs croaking or crickets chirping. There's a pond a half a mile down the road, but there's also a cricket infestation at the construction area on Park Street. Could be both. To some people, the sounds of the night are calming. Not to me. It's a reminder that the clock is ticking, that the world is turning, and I'll have to go back home before the sun comes up. I don't hate being home. It's just quiet. Passing the time is tedious when your mom needs absolute silence from noon to six so she can sleep off headaches. There's something wrong with her, I know. I try not to think about it.

When I grow up, I'm moving out. Out, out. I don't know if I'll choose the city or the desert. I've always wanted to head back east and visit Boston. I hear it's chaotic and busy and loud. The ceaseless lull here gets on my nerves. It's like people are hibernating; like they're done trying to live their lives and have instead chosen to just exist in a house only distinguishable from the ones around it by color.

Then again, I want to be able to see the stars. Really see them. From my viewpoint, I can only catch faint pinpricks of light with the overpowering street lights and porch lights and everything else. My family and I went hiking up in the mountains two summers ago, and that was the first time I saw the stars the way they should look. Bright and twinkling and peppered generously across the clear sky. It really makes you think about how arrogant humans are to drown that out in city lights and smog for the sake of convenience. Not that I'm a tree hugger or anything, but the stars really are pretty.

It's kind of funny how you only have three options in life, right? It's either mass-production, isolation, or monotony.

I guess I'm also nervous because I'm going into my junior year, and that's when you're supposed to figure your life out. I don't have a semblance of an idea what I want to do. I don't even know where I want to go. I've always thought it was stupid that they have you make all these vital decisions when you're sixteen. Don't they say that your brain isn't done growing until you're twenty-five? If we're so dumb, why are you making us sign off on our futures?

When my cigarette is gone, I throw it, too, into the bush after hopping off of the jungle gym. Since I now have nothing to do, I figure there's no harm in going home. While I reach for my skateboard, which is leaning up against the only real tree around for miles, I cram my Walkman into my pocket. I'm wearing flannel pajama pants, so there's an obvious bulge by my left hip, but no one's around so I let it be. By my estimates, it's probably about an hour past midnight. I don't want any crabby white dads yelling at me for waking them up with the sound of wheels rolling on the street, so I elect to walk.

With plenty of time to kill, I head home slowly. I don't know if I should feel wasteful for spending my time in limbo, listening to CDs instead of doing something useful. Skateboard resting against my hip, suburbia disappears into more suburbia behind me.


	2. Chapter 2

Lunchtime is when Jaxin and I usually ditch. Our school has an open campus, so it's easy enough. Step one: talk loudly about what you're going to get at Burger King. Step two: skate in the right direction. This is important. Vic and his friends missed this step one time and we saw them get intercepted by the gym teacher before they even left the grounds.

And step three? Never return. Most days, we squat in some abandoned construction project and smoke cigarettes. There's a whole neighborhood of unfinished houses several blocks past the school. I'm not sure what happened to them exactly; I'm guessing the company went bankrupt or something. They finished the wall around the community before they even started building houses, so there's an open white brick fence and a sign that reads _Delarosa Homes_ at the entrance. I can't decide if it's funny or sad.

I've got my Walkman in my hoodie pocket and a CD playing full blast, but that doesn't stop me from hearing a "Hey!" to my right. I stop, but Jaxin shoots off at top speed. I would've tried to run too, except it's a guy about my age in a black and blue striped polo shirt flagging us down. A snob, maybe, but only an adult would report us for skipping school.

I pluck out one of my earbuds and look questioningly at the kid. He has dark, fluffy hair that's short on the sides and gelled on top. I don't think I've ever seen him before.

"Do you go to Jefferson?" he asks. When I nod, he continues, "Oh. So you're skipping?"

I can't help but snort, but I nod again. He purses his lips and looks down for a moment, as if he's thinking of what to say.

"God is watching," he finally says. It's not in a scolding voice like you'd expect; it's more of a concerned one. I still laugh. He just smiles warmly and walks toward the school.

So...that was weird.

I put the earbud back in my ear and push off on my skateboard once again. This isn't a very Jesus-y town. Sure, most of the suburban moms and dads probably believe in Jesus, but the majority only go to church on Easter. No kid I've ever met here cares enough about God to shame people for being dirty, rotten sinners.

Yeah. That was weird.

I meet up with Jaxin by the white bricks.

"Dude, you didn't get busted?" he gapes.

"No," I chuckle. "It was just some kid."

"Oh. What did he want?"

I shrug and hook my board under my arm. "I dunno, really. He asked if I was skipping and then told me that God is watching."

"Tone, you don't think he'll snitch, do you?" Jaxin asks, worry evident in his voice. Last year he probably wouldn't have cared, but he has a job now, and almost enough money for a car. Getting in trouble could certainly jeopardize that.

"I don't think so," I assure him. "Anyway, I doubt he knows who we are. I've never seen him before."

Jaxin doesn't look convinced, but shrugs it off and ducks inside a wooden skeleton of a house. "Fuckin' Jesus nuts," he mutters, shaking his head. "What are you listening to?"

"Taking Back Sunday," I reply, following him. "What about you?"

"Rise Against. Let's switch when we're on our way home, alright?"

"Alright, dude."

We plop down on the ground and he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. I don't smoke a lot, but he certainly does. Jaxin has the worst nicotine addiction of anyone I've ever met, especially for someone who isn't even of legal age. For every one I smoke when I'm hanging out with him, he smokes eight. See, his dad buys them for him. The two of them can go through a gas station's entire supply in a day.

He passes me his pack while he lights one up. I've got my own at home but I don't bring them to school since Jaxin can spot me while we're together.

For the rest of the afternoon, we practice skateboarding tricks on the wooden floor until school's out. Then, we ride home and I enjoy my new Rise Against CD. It's a quiet evening after that. Mom sleeps and my sister and I do our homework in our rooms. Dad gets home at 5:30. It's another normal day in suburbia.


	3. Chapter 3

A hysterical "I have a fucking headache" is enough to send me out the front door.

When my mom yells, I get a weird feeling. Some kind of jolt through my chest, then shame. With dad, it's different, because dads can be assholes, but no one likes hurting their mom.

The perfect cure? Deafening music. My batteries are probably almost dead but there's no time to find spares, and I need to pull my thoughts away from the guilt fast. I can't help feeling guilty, but what's done is done, and I don't want to torture myself.

Jaxin is at work. I'm on my own. I find myself heading down to the park. There'll probably be people there, but I don't have anywhere else to go. I can just smoke off in the grass somewhere. I'm sweating by the time I arrive. I'm wearing a hoodie, but quickly shed it, as well as my t-shirt. September can be hot. Thankfully, I'm wearing shorts today. Tucking my skateboard and clothes under my arm, I round the corner to assess the damage.

The first thing I notice? A billion kids, who all look the same, ranging from the age of two to twelve crawling all over the playground. They  _have_ to be siblings. They all have friendly, round faces, sharp eyes, and dark, curly hair. After a glance toward the benches, I see him. Next to a stroller with a sleeping baby is the weird religious kid from yesterday. Almost on cue, my batteries die and the music cuts out. The kid spots me.

"Hi!" he greets me brightly, standing up with a grin. "Remember me?"

I cough and shrug, a little embarrassed. Why the hell is he talking to me? "Uh, yeah."

"I'm Jaime." He holds out a hand for me to shake. With my free arm, I take it, but drop it quickly.

"Tony."

"Well, nice to formally meet you."

Again, I shrug. "Uh huh." I start to walk off toward the grass, but then he calls, "Wait! Where're ya going?"

Jesus. "To sit down."

"Well, you're welcome over here. I'm just watching my brothers and sisters until they get bored, so I'll be here for awhile."

I have no idea what to make of his offer. I know he's religious, so surely this has to be some missionary ploy...but what kind of teenager is this adamant about preaching? I just mutter a quick "thanks" and head as far into the field as I can. It's a small park, but I manage to get myself far enough away that I can no longer clearly see Jaime's face. To deter any more friendly small talk, I leave my ear buds in. I'd feel safe betting that he'll try to talk to me again. Everyone knows how persistent religious people can be.

The grass is green, but by no means is it thriving. It must have gone weeks without any water. It scratches my bare skin as I lie on my back. I stay as still as I can while I pull out my cigarettes and light up.

You find a strange peace lying in the sun, especially with nature beneath you. I could stay here with my mind blank for hours. A light breeze trickles through the grass and over my skin while I close my eyes and idly listen to Jaime's siblings laugh with each other.

After half an hour of puffing through a few cigarettes and lying down without being bothered, I begin to let myself hope I'll be left alone. It's about then that I hear a timid, "Hello again."

Of course. I crack one eye open to see Jesus Boy, infant on his hip, sit himself down beside me. He asks, "Whatcha listening to?"

I sigh, pop my ear buds out, and confess, "Nothing. Batteries died. I was just too lazy to put it away."

"Oh," he chuckles. "Well, what _were_ you listening to?"

"Saosin."

"No way!" he exclaims. His baby sister shrieks, "Weh!" Jaime laughs and then explains, "I love their song 'Seven Years.'"

I frown in surprise. "I didn't really peg you for the type."

"Yeah, most people don't," he grins. "I like lots of different stuff, though. How 'bout you?"

"Uh...I guess I mainly listen to that type of music."

"That's cool," he smiles. "So, how do you like Jefferson?"

I can't decide whether or not I'm annoyed. I thought I made it pretty clear that I didn't want to be bothered, but then again, it's hard to be irritated by someone so well-intentioned. The trouble is that underneath all of the pleasantries, this kid has to be super judgmental. That's how it always goes with the Jesus Freaks.

"School isn't really my thing," I offer bluntly. Jaime hums.

"Yeah, I didn't think so. But that's okay. Not everyone likes school."

"Well, I'd like it more if it wasn't such a standardized-test-taker-factory."

That makes him laugh a little harder than he should with how un-funny that was. "Good point," he smiles at me. His sister parrots, "Oi." Jaime kisses her head affectionately, then says to me, "This is Emma, by the way."

"Hi, Emma," I greet awkwardly. I'm not very good with kids, but she beams at me anyway with all four of her teeth. Seems like she's a happy baby.

"So, how old are you?" Jaime asks me.

"Sixteen."

"Oh, me too! Are you a junior?"

I nod, "Yep."

"Huh. It's a shame we don't have any classes together. Maybe next semester, right?"

"Yeah," I shrug.

We talk for awhile. It's mostly him talking and me occasionally responding, but it's actually kind of nice. Despite what I thought before, he doesn't seem all that judgmental. It's a bit later when the sun has cooled off when we're interrupted.

"Jaime," hollers a shrill voice from the playground. A kid of about nine with a bulbous nose sprints over to us and says, "We wanna go home and eat dinner."

"Okay, Berto. I'll be over in a second." Jaime stands up then. "Thanks for the chat, Tony." I feel like smoking another cigarette, so since the baby is out of the way now, I pull one out and spark it. 

"Yeah," I say, "you're alright. I'll see you around, I guess."

"You know," Jaime offers after he brushes off his jeans and moves Emma to the other hip, "your face won't stay so handsome if you keep smoking those things. See you at school."

He turns around without another word and follows his siblings past the playground and down the street. I watch him until he disappears behind one of a trillion identical houses. It's a stupid statement. The smoking thing. Everyone knows smoking kills. Everyone knows it fucks you up. Why did he have to say it like that? It's stupid.

The funny thing is, I can't stop thinking about him for the rest of the night.


End file.
